


12 Days of Sherlock

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bookshop, Fake Dating, First Time, Holiday warm fuzzies, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Soulmates, Tropes, accidental voyeur/spying, coffeeshop, enemies or friends to lovers, pet play/anthropomorphism, pirates/tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-09-21 04:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17037020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: What it says on the tin…twelve tiny wee fics of tried-and-true tropes, from bed sharing to arranged marriage to coffeeshop AU. Wheeee!Family/kids





	1. Favourite Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin…twelve tiny wee fics of tried-and-true tropes, from bed sharing to arranged marriage to coffeeshop AU. Wheeee! 
> 
> _Family/kids_

It was a December night when Sherlock was bored and John was bored and so they were slumping around the sitting room, being bored together.

Sherlock was hanging upside down off the edge of the sofa, drip-dripping eggnog into his mouth with his favourite pipette, while John watched him do this.

Shortly John said, "If we had kids you would totally be their favourite father."

Sherlock was so startled at this unexpected news he dripped eggnog into his eye. He pretended it did not burn.

Because John did not know Sherlock had added quite a bit of rum to his nog right after their neighbours started playing their _An Eclectic Christmas_ CD for the third time. On it chipmunks sang about Jesus. Or poo sang about chipmunks. At this point Sherlock was too drunk to tell. And now half-blind.

Anywho, as one inebriated detective roll-fell off the sofa to go wash his eye out with some tepid tea, a doctor said, "It's because you'd let them do stuff with your test tubes and your pipettes and things."

John grinned at the coloured lights on the mantel and the skull with her Christmas hat. He's okay with not having kids. First, he's got one who's six feet tall, and second, sometimes pretending you have a thing is all you really need _of_ that thing.

Sherlock threw his long, dramatic body onto the sofa, dramatically. He handed John a retort flask and said, "I'd be their favourite on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. You'd be their favourite on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays because you'd let them play with your stethoscope and tongue depressors."

Through the walls they could hear that grandma was maybe doing something with reindeer.

The boys of Baker Street slumped low on the sofa and started sucking straight rum out of their respective flasks.

It was Sunday. Today they'd both be favourite fathers.

_—  
Thus begins a tiny twelve days of Christmas run of stories with the following tropes, taken in order: family/kids, first time, coffeeshop, fake dating, sharing a bed, pirates/tentacles, enemies or friends to lovers, bookshop, arranged marriage, anthropomorphism, soulmates, accidental spying. Feel free to prompt with a link to a photo! P.S. Here's a [retort flask](https://5.imimg.com/data5/HU/RY/MY-10811958/glass-retort-flask-250x250.jpg). P.P.S. I'm doing [three](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038031/chapters/40059065) [others](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17037689/chapters/40058327), [too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043248/chapters/40071740)._


	2. Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum Pum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brother beware…
> 
> _First time_

Sherlock Holmes can sing.

His family learned this on the 22 of December, the year Sherlock was four years old.

They almost died in the discovering.

Oh, it's not that Sherlock's voice was poor, it was not. As a matter of fact the wee sprite had a clear soprano that suited his cherubic dark curls and cupid's bow mouth.

No, the problem was not Sherlock tone or his pitch, his cadence or his clarity. The problem, the _problem_ was that the first time Sherlock decided to sing holiday songs, he decided to sing about his brother Mycroft.

At volume.

"MYCROF' GOT RUN OVER BY A REINDEER!" He sang, sitting by the Christmas tree in his footie jimjams.

"MYCROF' FELL DOWN THE CHIMNEY TONIGHT!" He warbled, making snow angels in the front garden.

"THAAAALL I TRICK YOU NOW PA RUM PUM PUM PUM!" He hollered at Mycroft in the back garden, leaning unwisely far out his bedroom window.

It goes without saying that mummy was concerned and daddy was surprised. It also goes without saying that they said to Mycroft, "Whatever did you do to your brother?" And it perhaps goes very much _with_ saying that Maureen and Altamont Holmes both took turns telling their youngest to "Cut it out Sherlock for fuck's sake," only not in those words precisely.

Sherlock obeyed, each time his parents told him to can the caterwaul, but he started right back up again as soon as Mycroft was within range.

Finally, _finally_ Mycroft broke down and confessed.

With chin high, the eleven-year-old first absolved himself of blame. "I am not to blame," he said. Then he added with the vaguery of a politician being vague, "I was…unaware of its properties."

Finally, young master Mycroft finished in tones both frosty and aggrieved, "If it will make everyone happy I'll apologise."

Still unclear on what the exact matter was but keen on quieting their singing child, mummy and daddy asked Sherlock exactly how his brother should make amends.

"Eyeth cream," said the child. "Eyeth cream."

So it came to pass that Mycroft Holmes sat at the family table and before a bowl of vanilla ice cream into which a puree of cauliflower had been cruelly added, and proceeded to consume the whole wretched slurry.

Mummy and daddy could safely count this as the very last time Mycroft gave his baby brother one of those nice-looking boiled sweets that halfway through a vigourous suck suddenly turn more sour than pickled onions and unripe currants in lime juice and bad, bad thoughts.

And all would later, and with regret, count this as the very first time Sherlock tasted the sweet, sweet taste of payback.

 _—  
I'm going to note that Chocolamousse is going to note that this story has reindeer _and _rum like the previous one. You're welcome. P.S. I know this is not exactly a tropey first time, but[ChrisCalledMeSweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/199250714) inspired me and there you go._


	3. Pretty Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young man with the lovely eyes, he reminds Altamont Holmes of someone he used to know.
> 
> _First time / amnesia_

Sherlock was fifty-one years old when his daddy went away.

Altamont Holmes was lucky, if luck is to be had in dementia taking one's memories. Because Altamont Holmes was eighty-six when he began going slow and careful into that good, sad night, and by the time he was ninety-one he no longer recalled that once there were different days.

He'd started as a happy babe, had Al, plump as his infant sons would later be when they were tiny, all three Holmes men growing long and lean only later. But unlike his self-serious boys, Al was always more prone to smiles than frowns and so he started as he meant to go on, right to the end.

And that was _happily._

When Sherlock came to the care home every fourth day, his father greeted him like an old friend whose name—"It's just slipped my mind at the minute"—he couldn't seem to remember.

But he remembered that Sherlock brought crisps at each visit because Sherlock is a smart man, a genius some have said. So right from those first signs that daddy had an issue, that his memory was beginning to go gossamer and frail, well right then Sherlock Pavloved his way into his father mind, he began to scour the city, the country, then _other_ countries for the strangest crisps he could find.

Because for as long as Sherlock could remember Altamont Holmes did not have a sweet tooth—not like he did or mummy did or Mycroft, too. No, daddy loved savory things and the savory thing he loved most was crisps.

So back about a half dozen years, when the threads of his father's fragile memory began to tatter, Sherlock found a way to be remembered.

"Oh good, good, what do we have today, um—"

"Sherlock."

"I remember, I know."

Sherlock smiled as if he believed that and he took off his rucksack—because he has a rucksack now, he carries a _rucksack,_ the better to keep his father's surprises _surprising._

So Sherlock swung his rucksack onto the picnic table in the care home's very nice garden, and he sat down across from his father and made a big show of peering into his bag. He made harumphing sounds as if he couldn't find what he was looking for though there was nothing in the bag but three crisp packets.

"Well, it looks like first, we have these," Sherlock said, handing his father a packet the colour of old blood.

Altamont took the bag, careful not to crush, he adjusted his specs and he exclaimed, "Beetroot! Oh that sounds mighty fine, uh—"

"Sherlock."

"—yes, of course. These sound very good indeed. I think these will be the ones I have first. Unless you want to try some right now maybe?"

"I already did. You're going to love them," Sherlock lied. He always lied so that his father didn't feel like he had to share. Later, if Altamont remembered which crisps he'd liked best, Sherlock would tell him those were his favourites, too.

Sherlock peered into his rucksack again, withdrew something beige. He handed the crisps to his father, leaned close. "These'll be good when you want to stay awake for the next Miss Marple movie marathon."

Altamont clutched the cappuccino crisps to his chest as if someone might have designs on them. "Oh yes," he whispered back, "for Miss Marple."

Sherlock waited a second, then five, then ten, before withdrawing the final packet. During these long moments Altamont held his son's eye and in that great brain of his, a brain which had taught his boys their numbers and birth dates and the names of London rivers and why it is necessary to be kind, Al wondered what strange wonders he would see today.

"Ta da!"

Well. _Well._ Altamont blinked, then blinked again. He politely gestured until Sherlock placed the crisps packet onto his palm. He blinked some more and made a moue.

"I don't mean to be ungrateful, uh—"

"Sherlock."

"—but, but candy cane crisps? That's dafter than a duck!"

Sherlock grinned big, bigger, biggest. Then he giggled.

Candy cane crisps _were_ daft, but Altamont would try them even so. That was the deal, one crisps packet a day until his visitor came back.

Mostly Al wouldn't remember the flavours he'd already tried, neither would he remember Sherlock's name, but he _would_ usually remember that Sherlock would come back with more crisps.

What Altamont Holmes would also remember was that this man whose smile didn't always reach his eyes, this curly haired youngster who reminded him of someone he used to know, well Al would remember that they liked each other's company, that they made each other happy.

So each time the young man visited Altamont would do his best to make him smile, big, bigger, biggest.

Until that smile reached his pretty grey eyes.

—  
_Dementia is not amnesia, I know, but the prompt wanted to be this. Also, there are truly all sorts of[potato crisps](https://www.boredpanda.com/unusual-potato-chips-flavors), including beetroot, and I thought I made up the candy cane crisps but after writing this I checked and [I DID NOT](https://www.thesun.co.uk/fabulous/food/4638012/tesco-launched-bizarre-candy-cane-flavoured-crisps-shoppers-baffled/). _


	4. Sixteen, Depending on the Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock blinked at Dr John Watson. 
> 
> It took a second to respond but when he did, he did it arse backwards as he was always ever going to do, but at least he did it with charm. 
> 
> _Coffeeshop / fake dating_

"You look gorgeous, gorgeous."

Dr. Celine Marconi smiled down at her date, waiting expectantly beside his cafe table for a gratitude hug. She did not get it. "Uh, right. So can I get you something then?"

Sherlock smiled winsomely and with the rapid-fire precision of a man who's given the question a great deal of planned thought, said, "That's so kind of you Celine! I'd love a mocha latte minus one pump of mocha plus two pumps of vanilla, with three marshmallows on the side, and the milk extra hot. I'd also like a twice-toasted tea cake with butter, jam, and Marmite. On the side."

Sherlock's date blink-blinked, nodded, then went to place the order.

As his date queued, the world's only consulting detective scratched ruminatively and wondered if he shouldn't have tacked a few items on to his order, the better to keep his 'date' well, dating.

This would be his only chance, he knew. Because once the good doctor figured out he'd only said yes to her coffee invitation so he could ask her thirteen medical questions—sixteen depending on the answers to five and nine—she was bound to take offense and then flight. They always do. Hence his order. Even on a surgeon's salary Sherlock figured the more time and money someone spent on a date with him, the less inclined they would be to flee.

This supposition has proved true for Sherlock Holmes exactly never.

Still, hope springs eternal and when Celine caught his eye from the queue Sherlock tilted his head, finger-waved and semaphored at her. It took a solid half minute of miming for him to convey _two teacakes please,_ but eventually his meaning was clear and the queue moved.

*

He'd give Dr. Celine Marconi this: she answered more questions than he expected before she started shouting.

Along with buying him exactly what he asked for—he didn't touch the mocha latte for no matter how many plus or minus pumps they are an abomination—she gave lucid, helpful replies to the first two of Sherlock's questions.

Her hackles rose, however, halfway through his third, eyes narrowed at the fourth, and he got absolutely nowhere near the fifth before a voice was raised, the St. Bart's surgeon was swearing, and Sherlock was sitting alone with the crumbs of a couple teacakes.

Damn it. He should have asked the _ninth_ question first, and he might have got a lead on the forgery case.

Strangely, it did not occur to Sherlock to have been honest with his pretend date, saying something like…

"Scuttlebutt around St. Mary's is that you're not only a remarkable surgeon, but you have masters degrees in immunology, pathology, and forensics. Further, they say you dabble in home chemistry and own a Meiji Techno MT6300EH halogen trinocular epi-fluorescence biological microscope.

"With such an array of admirable skills would you help me save a set of twins from jail, gather proof to put away an embezzler, and win a Christmas bet with Dimmock by answering thirteen questions, sixteen depending on how you answer five and nine? In exchange I'll tell you a trick I've figured out with the Meiji."

Alas, Sherlock did not, in fact, say any of this.

There are many reasons and some of those are these:

He has never and will never use the word scuttlebutt.

He is actually somewhat awkward when faced with others as accomplished in chemistry and forensics as he is, never mind also having a tolerably winning temperament.

Sherlock does not own a microscope worth nearly sixteen thousand pounds sterling, and so couldn't have shared any tips at all ever.

And finally, it's likely that his sixteen questions would have turned into seventeen when he asked, "Can I please play with your Meiji?"

Anyway, none of this honesty occurred and so instead Dr Celine Marconi lost patience and after a bit of spleen venting she snatched up the remnants of her lunch and her latte and vacated the premises.

Now it would take Sherlock much longer to figure out if—

"Excuse me."

—the suspect was telling the truth about—

"Um, hello?"

—where she was the day the dog—

"I couldn't help noticing just now?"

—got in to the gallery and ruined—

"Sir? Sir?"

—a fortune in—

"Hey man with the moles!"

Sherlock went from his steady state of _unless you're related to a case you're invisible_ right on over to _hair up on the back of his neck alert_ when a stranger leaned over from the cafe table beside him and shouted in his ear.

In a future that will include Dr John Watson recounting this tale to anyone who even remotely asks, Sherlock will not deny that he jumped a mile out of his skin when John got close to holler in his ear. He _will_ deny alarm had anything to do with it, instead admitting to a more visceral, full-systems alert that the person beside him smelled so good that he was working on a chubby before he even turned to see who _else_ was angry with him today.

Except Dr John Watson was not angry with this stranger who, once noticed, could not be unnoticed.

John will not deny Sherlock's beauty drew his eye, he _will_ deny approaching Sherlock had anything to do with that. No, John started talking to Sherlock because Sherlock has moles.

Without straining too hard John saw a few moles on the pretty stranger's cheeks, on the back of his hand, and several on the side of his long neck. And mostly John could see a crusty, bloody mole just peeping up above the back of his collar and at which Sherlock intermittently scratched.

Sure, yeah, anyone can get a melanoma, but a lot of moles do raise risk and Dr Watson knows that anyone with an itchy, oozy sore that doesn't heal needs to scamper quick smart to their doctor and—

"—get that fucker checked out."

Sherlock blinked at Dr John Watson—"Hello, I'm a doctor at St. Bart's and I just noticed something"—and it took a second to respond but when he did, he did it arse backwards as he was always ever going to do, but at least he did it with charm.

"May I ask you a few questions about a Scotland Yard case or two I'm working on Dr. Watson? In exchange I will buy you a mocha latte, an almond croissant, and if they are selling it up near the till, my gratitude as well."

John grinned but didn't get a chance to reply before Sherlock continued.

"Also yes, I will get my…my fucker, checked out. What are your office hours?"

John Watson's grin got bigger and he responded arse forward. "Ask away. Thank you. Nine a.m."

Then, with a lip lick that somehow brought his delicious scent to Sherlock italicised and underlined, he said softly, "Call me John."

 _—_  
_So I accidentally did one prompt twice so I combined two prompts for this one. P.S. For anyone who may[be interested](https://twitter.com/AtlinMerrick/status/1042539598671425537). P.P.S. Happy new year! Prompts welcome!_


	5. Another Name for Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would not date Sherlock Holmes if he was the last man on a cold and barren earth."
> 
> _Enemies to Friends to Lovers_

"I would not date Sherlock Holmes if he was the last man on a cold and barren earth."

John Watson underscored the truth of this by slamming back half his mocha latte. It burned like a mother fucker. So bad he actually a little bit cried. From the pain. Of the burning.

Still and all, Dr Anil Kumar did not believe his drama queen colleague. He absolutely knew that Sherlock Holmes would be perfect for John. Madcap shenanigans, tomfoolery _perfect._

Yet Anil is no fool. He would bide his time. Let John's trachea heal. Take him for lunch down at The Viaduct,…

"Jenna told me he set fire to Mr Vala's hair the other day!"

…get Jenna to stop talking shit about Sherlock.

"Look, that was an _accident_ John. All the hairspray Mr Vala used the day he died left him a little…flammable."

John eyed his latte. Sipped carefully. "Yeah, well Mary told me he whipped a corpse once. And Mike said he sniffs odd _bits_ of corpses."

Anil was going to have to talk with all his colleagues. Again.

"Look, John—"

"Look, Anil. I appreciate you trying to set me up. I do. I really, really do. But."

 _But I got shot,_ John did not say _. Then got typhoid fever. And died for a bit. That's some fuckin' trifecta my friend._

Instead John said, "I need calm, okay? Just…lots of calm." He frowned at his latte. "A guy who smells dead bodies and sets things on fire is the very last man I would ever want to date."

Anil nodded. He's no fool. He'd bide his time. Because Anil Kumar has known the good doctor since their first day at med school. In the dozen years since, he's learned something very important about his friend:

John Watson has absolutely no damn _idea_ what the word calm actually means.

*

He noticed him because he smelled good.

After that it was as natural as the stages of decomposition for Sherlock Holmes to follow the small, fine-smelling man from the cafeteria queue to a half-full table.

"Hi Terry!" John put his tray down.

That sunny Sunday so many weeks ago they got to talking. For hours. Natural as breathing.

"Bless you, you beautiful man." John accepted the coffee Sherlock pushed across the table. "How'd you know I like mocha lattes?"

And it was natural as self-preservation for Sherlock to lie that day and every day since, to tell the small and interesting doctor that his name was Terry. Because Sherlock knows the stories they tell about him at Bart's.

"I just asked Adele to make Dr Watson's usual."

They tell about the fires or the blood or the pigeons in the operating room. They rarely tell about catching a drug-peddling surgeon or cornering the couple who kidnapped infant twins, or any of the other cases he's solved after ghosting through Bart's.

"You genius."

So for this man, who he'd followed at first because he smelled good but talked with nearly every day since then because he is _fascinating,_ Sherlock became Terry. And he didn't tell John it was a stained cuff and sweet breath that told him what coffee to order, instead he told John about "a friend at Scotland Yard" who wondered if a coriander allergy could be fatal or if a chimpanzee's fingerprints could be mistaken for a human's.

And after John told him what he thought about allergies and fingerprints, Sherlock told ridiculous stories about a friend who accidentally set a wig on fire and let a pair of pigeons inside once and John laughed or swore and days turned into weeks turned into tonight, with "Terry" and John the only ones in Bart's cafeteria.

"A crypt? A real crypt?"

"Right in the middle of suburban Earl's Court."

John giggled and goosebumped. It was minus fuck-no outside and pitch dark. A crypt would be creepy as _shit_ right now. "The actual bones of an actual parasitic twin _inside_ the dead woman's skull?"

Sherlock nodded and blinked, bright-eyed. He was nervous. He was going to tell John some things tonight. His name for one. Then why he'd lied. Then he'd tell him he was sorry and they really should still be friends. Then he'd plead. But maybe, if he could give John an adventure first he wouldn't have to do that last bit? Because maybe John would see Sherlock wasn't just…all those things they say about him at Bart's.

Maybe he could—

"What?"

John stood beside the table thumping his walking stick until their empty coffee cups jumped.

"—I said let's go! Time's a-wasting! I want to see that parasitic twin! In a crypt for fuck's sake! How mad is that!" John giggled, the pulse in his throat pounding. He was beaming at Sherlock.

*

John Watson was a half hour late to work the next day.

The bags under his eyes were big enough to carry a parasitic twin.

But he grinned the morning away and when it was time for lunch he weaved through a half-dozen cafeteria tables without his walking stick. Then surprise-kissed a curly-haired man on the neck.

Even from three tables away Anil Kumar could hear the words _Sherlock_ and _running,_ later he could hear _finger_ and _kiss_ and _suck._

Anil Kumar grinned down at his mocha latte—they weren't that bad—and stood. He had to go find Jenna and Mary and Mike and tell them it was okay now.

Everything was okay.

_—  
Karuna asked "Are pheromones the actual name for 'Fate?'" and so Sherlock Holmes followed his nose one afternoon and the rest, oh the rest is like-finds-like history. Thank you Karuna! P.S. I used to live right next to the Brompton Cemetery in Earl's Court and yeah, there are crypts. Spooky-cool crypts. [Go see](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/182404457224/fic-another-name-for-fate-enemies-to-friends-to)!_


	6. Thoughts At Midnight, Specifically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For weeks John Watson has put off having some Very Important Thoughts™. 
> 
> Well, his brain has decided he's having them now. 
> 
> _Bed sharing_

John Watson had a thinky thought and that thought was this: It wasn't fair.

The bed was huge. Plump with duvets and pillows and probably clouds or something. He'd just never been in a bed like this one and frankly he wasn't exactly sorry for the misunderstanding that had brought him here.

But.

Except.

Well. _Sherlock._ As in Holmes. As in Sherlock Holmes and he sharing a bed. This plump, soft bed.

John laced his fingers over his pyjama-clad belly and did not look to his left. If he did he would have to see something he wasn't ready to see, so instead John Watson laced his fingers harder and stared at the ceiling.

He was lying in a plump, soft bed in a listed B&B, which of course meant the ceiling was camera-ready. So up there were exposed beams with moonlight snagged atmospherically among the shadows, perfect for John to stare at and to keep him from looking left, seeing what he didn't want to see.

Perfect for John to relace his fingers and think about what he should have thought about months ago.

Sherlock. As in Holmes. As in the sway of his bottom when he slow-paces the flat in his pyjamas. Pyjamas that display a bottom that looks both plump and soft, much like this bed.

A bottom attached to a body attached to a brain attached to a fascinating man that John Watson has been noticing since before he moved in to 221B Baker Street six weeks ago.

It is this thought John finds in ceiling shadows, pinning it in place with some hard staring and soft sighing.

He's an idiot, just like Sherlock says. One who's been in denial for no reason whatsoever and who right now, in a plump, soft Lake District bed, is quite sick of it.

So then. Captain Dr John H Watson, recently of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of St Bart's and Baker Street, makes up his mind. He is done being an idiot.

John tightens his fingers. He breathes deep a couple times. He, at last, looks left.

There is nothing on the bed beside him.

"Sherlock?"

John's breath stutters. He can do this.

"Sherlock?"

His breath stutters again, he—

"Mmmfhg."

The sleepy baritone rasp of that voice does it. It steadies John's nerves, unlaces his fingers, flips him onto his belly, wriggles him to the edge of the vast and fluffy bed. He peers over its edge and says softly, "I'm sorry I yelled. Before. About the one room thing."

Don't ask John how he knows Sherlock is now wide awake and holding his breath but John knows.

"I'm…we…could…You don't have to sleep on the floor. Sherlock. We could. Share the bed. If. You felt like doing that. With me. Specifically."

If you like you _can_ ask John how he knows Sherlock wants to share the bed with him, specifically.

But John won't answer as he has a consulting detective duvet on top of him right now and he is so soft, plump, and squirmy.

—  
_The idea of switching the 'sharing a bed' trope occurred to me because Verity Burns was within my vicinity. Good ideas always happen when there is a Verity. Trufact. AND! Read[Anarion's wonderful take](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17727263) on the same prompt!_


	7. The TEAM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When four people put their mind to it, there's no way John Watson won't meet Sherlock Holmes. 
> 
> Right?
> 
> _Arranged marriage_

"He's coming down the stairs. I repeat, John Watson is coming down the stairs," hissed Dana into her cuff, inside which nestled her mobile phone.

"Oh no."

It looked like John was turning around. The Team had worked hard to arrange this, they had—ah!

"False alarm, I repeat, false alarm."

Dr Dana Boya started to ghost her colleague and, because being a heart surgeon was apparently not heart thrumming enough, she continued to pretend she was a cuff-whispering spy. Everyone at Bart's is used to this. She drew no attention.

"At his current pace he should reach the museum in thirteen hundred hour—"

Boya cursed lowly and lyrically.

"Damn! He's stopped to talk with one of the dementia buddies. Aaand now he's holding the guy's hand. Aaand now I think they're crying." Dana swallowed. Her mam had spent her last weeks in a Dublin hospice with a doctor a lot like John. There weren't enough good eggs like—

"He's on the move and heading toward you E!"

At reception Ella "No Relation" Fitzgerald, rested her chin on her ample bosoms, mobile hidden between them and tucked behind a scarf festooned with cartoon eyeballs. "Got him."

The meeter-and-greeter greeted John just as he veered to look out at the falling snow. "Hi doc! Hey, did you ever get that message from Carla? About that guy wanting to see you at the pathology museum?"

John slapped his forehead, checked his watch. "I knew I was heading somewhere. Still got a couple minutes. Thanks E!"

E shoved her face into her scarf. "He's heading to you T—"

"I'm on it!" Tamal Rose, RN pushed his earbuds in harder and scarpered to a spot directly in front of the doors leading to Bart's courtyard, just as John rounded the corner.

"Snow Tamal!"

Tamal smiled—he loves snow!—then remembered what he was doing and switched to resigned ennui just as John reached for the door handle. "It's broken agaaaain."

The latches on Bart's old wood doors were sometimes temperamental, seizing up in cold weather. John did not need to know that these doors had not chosen to do so today.

John shrugged and stepped back. "Well, it'll be there after work I guess. Later Tamal!"

For a tenterhook and tiptoe moment it looked like the good doctor was about to go back the way he'd come.

"WHAT TIME IS IT?"

John startled but glanced at his watch. In so doing he remembered the previous time he had glanced at his watch and the time before and he so recalled what he'd started to do fifty-five minutes ago. "Nearly half one, sorry I have to dash Tamal!"

With that Dr John Watson bolted for the third floor stairs. Only once he was out of sight did Tamal breathe a sigh of relief and slump against the doors.

They opened instantly and he fell into the snow.

*

"And I think this one looks like a scary clown!"

Marcus Toksvig made a face. Like a scary clown. And Sherlock Holmes—who has walked barefoot through maggots, and once jumped on the back of an escaped polar bear—took a tiny step backward.

"Sorry, it's just—" Marcus held up a large jar within which a suppurated foot floated serenely. This wasn't the jar he'd meant to pick up but it was the one he had now and he was _not_ going to screw this up. The Team was counting on him.

"—when I'm working in the museum alone all the body parts start to look spooky. Clowns are spooky. I mean even a clown's foot—" Marcus held up the spirit jar. "—would be spooky don't you think Mr. Holmes?"

Mr Holmes took another super-small step back and looked at his watch. Usually, when he comes to Bart's pathology museum—filled to its bright rafters with glittering jars inside which human parts were suspended—it was to pepper the curator with questions, or stroll the collection and think deductive thoughts.

"This isn't a clown's foot though. I'm just saying. If it was."

This time Sherlock had come at the behest of Marcus, the curator's junior assistant who, upon spotting him in the courtyard, said one of the doctors on staff had "a very important question about something you said about something!"

Sherlock looked at his watch again. It was nearly half one. He had an appointment to harass Lestrade at…well, he always had an appointment to harass Lestrade.

"That's interesting Mr Toksvig, and currently useless to me. No offense."

"None taken."

"Being as the doctor with the mystery question hasn't bothered to appea—"

"I HAVE TO PEE!"

Marcus Toksvig tends to panic but, knowing he had to keep Sherlock Holmes in the museum until Dr Watson arrived, he panicked with the truth.

Shoving the jar in Holmes' hands the junior assistant curator scampered toward the door. "Sorry sir. I have to. You know. Could you just watch things while I'm. Thanks!"

Marcus Toksvig bolted out as John Watson, with five minutes left of his lunch break, bolted in.

*

Thirty seconds after that happened, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stood in St Bart's pathology museum and argued about who had asked to talk to whom.

Five hours after _that_ they were still arguing but this time at a restaurant and about the feasibility of judging blood type by touch.

Two weeks after that John kissed Sherlock for the first time.

Eight months later they proposed to one another on the same day.

And exactly a year after first meeting among impossible femurs and suppurating feet, the good doctor and his detective celebrated the felicitations of the season by marrying on the fourteenth of February.

Of course The Team (Tamal and Ella and dAna and Marcus) were on the wedding guest list.

John had arranged for Tamal to sit next to Ella. He was _sure_ one of them had a crush on the other.

—  
_Happy Valentine's day from the Team and me! Yes, dementia buddies and meeters-and-greeters are real[positions](https://www.bartshealth.nhs.uk/volunteer-with-us) at Bart's, yes I'm implying the Team arranged John and Sherlock's marriage, and yes the Team is made up, though Carla is real and is the curator at St. Bart's marvelous pathology [museum](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/182815281049/fic-the-team-arranged-marriage-when-four-people). Know what her surname is? [Valentine](https://www.qmul.ac.uk/pathologymuseum/about/team/)._


	8. The Dummy's Guide to Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bookshop_
> 
> Sherlock Holmes knows how to get a man's attention.
> 
> Well, after thirteen tries, lots of throat clearing, and contemplating fire he does.
> 
> It's that fourteenth try when John Watson finally notices.

John Watson did not notice the pretty man at first.

("It was fourteen days _exactly_ John, I started to think you were blind" the man will say a year later, and John will say "Shut up Sherlock" and then he will say "oh come here and kiss me you fluffy-haired fool" and the fluffy-haired fool will growl and bite him softly)

There was an extenuating circumstance as to why John Watson did not, in fact, see the fool with the fluffy hair, despite their sitting at the same library table for a fortnight. That circumstance was this:

John Watson was strung _out._

If he wasn't working at the Boots round the corner from the uni, John was working at its attached coffee bar—seriously, who fucking goes to a fucking chemist to get a fucking coffee?—and if the twenty-two-year-old med student was not doing those, he was attending classes _at_ the university, and if he wasn't doing that he was sitting in the uni library:

1) Trying to not cry from exhaustion

2) Studying for his almost-daily exams

3) Crying from exhaustion

John was so tired he couldn't see out of his left eye half the time so no, absolutely no he did not see the pretty guy with the pretty hair who regularly took up residence on the other side of his small study table, didn't see him for (apparently) two solid weeks, not until the man started slamming things willy nilly.

("I didn't _slam_ John" "You slammed")

At first it was just his rucksack landing on the table with a glassy tinkle. It sounded exactly like the thing was full of test tubes.

"Jeez mate, what's in that thing?"

"Test tubes."

Since Sherlock Holmes did not, in fact, attend the University of London, he had no rights to its rooms or equipment. This meant that when students started piling into a lab, Sherlock would have to scamper off, taking his in-progress experiments along with him.

Anyway, John finally noticed his tall tablemate once his tablemate started to tinkle. Then he noticed him because he set his test tubes up on the table.

"Hydrochloric acid? That can't be safe."

"Define safe."

After John got used to the experimenting, he started to notice his tablemate because his tablemate started staring. At John's fingers once, his ears another time, his half-hearted attempt at a moustache a third.

("It looked terrible John" "I was experimenting" "you complained about _my_ experiments" "you leaked bile on my microbiology notes Sherlock")

After John noticed the staring, the man stopped staring and started throwing.

("Didn't" "Did")

And what the tall man started throwing was books.

 _Basics of Blood Spatter_ was so heavy it shook the table, and bolted John upright. Pawing drool off his face he barked, "Blood!" returned the man's gleeful smile, then immediately fell asleep again.

When _Lurid Crimes of London_ was tossed onto the table John was this close to asking about it but he was already five minutes late meeting his ex-girlfriend. Their flashcards on abdominal pathologies weren't going to study themselves.

For the next few weeks exams, practicals, and the brisk progression of his nervous breakdown kept John from engaging much with the pretty man. All he could do was return Mr Floofy's manic smiles, try and not dissociate, and get back to his cross section on urethras.

Which may explain why, when _The Dummy's Guide to Penile Sounding_ landed on the table, John finally found the mental bandwidth to say something.

"Just so you know, sounding's associated with a high risk of sexually-transmitted infections." Here John gestured to a textbook illustration of an diseased penis and then to his notes where the word _infected_ was written in red and underlined. John Watson had strong feelings on infections. And, he was beginning to suspect, penises.

"I'm Sherlock. Tell me more," was all the floofy-haired man said, chin in hands. So John did, at length, with a couple multi-coloured drawings whipped up on the spot.

When _Tickle My Tush: Anal Play Adventures_ landed on the table between them the week John was studying the rectum and colon, he didn't even wait for Sherlock to ask. "So, the thing about anuses…"

John only came up for air when the library lights flickered, signaling ten-to-closing.

When _London for Adrenaline Junkies_ was tossed onto the table John went chin-hands for three hours as Sherlock explained that no, it wasn't _technically_ legal to scale the outside of the London Eye or rappel down Big Ben, but that didn't mean _some_ people hadn't.

("No way Sherlock" "Yes way John")

The day _Five Signs You May Be Bisexual_ skidded across the table it almost knocked over a coffee cup and three test tubes. It also landed on that library table with the thud of prophecy.

The day John Watson tossed that book onto the table he and Sherlock Holmes had been sharing for eleven weeks, John was ready to feel a lot of things he'd been feeling a long time now and more so, he was ready to say something important. Life changing. Perfect.

"I need someone to help me go through my flash cards on reproductive tract pathologies. What're you doing tonight?"

("You, it turned out I was doing you")

Under the duvet a year later and wriggling down, down, down, John Watson just giggled.

—  
_Bookshop/library, same-same for this prompt, which I've now done for four different fandoms. I may have to join new ones so I can keep doing it. I_ love _inventing book titles for this…P.S. One of these books' titles is based on[a real book](https://www.amazon.com/Tickle-Tush-Mild-Wild-Adventures/dp/0970661142). You're welcome._


	9. "Slmtes."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Soulmates_
> 
>  
> 
> You don't need flowers or poetry to prove two men are soulmates.
> 
> For John and Sherlock all you need is loo roll, unspoken words that are heard anyway, and chest compressions with a three kilo book.

John woke woozily and with a weight on his chest.

He smacked at whatever-it-was and when it failed to shift, he yelled for Sherlock.

"Shhll!"

So weak was the shout that not even the toilet tissue draped across John's mouth moved.

"Thffc!" _Why the fuck is there a square of loo roll on my face?_

John slapped the tissue off his mouth and—he lifted his head from a sweat-sodden pillow—the huge book from his chest. Both fell to the floor; one quite loudly.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with the swiftness of a man who's just missed getting brained with a three kilo book.

"I'm awake!"

He spit out the square of toilet tissue, shouting, "You're all right!" It was not a question, but an exaltation.

Because John, Sherlock's husband, his helpmeet, his blogger, and better half had been sleeping so deeply for so long that Sherlock frantically texted their doctor once spoons, mirrors, and finally paper products draped over John's mouth failed to prove that John was breathing.

"Css." _Of course I'm all right._

Sherlock clambered up from the floor. "You've been asleep for fifteen hours."

"Ff." _Fuck._

"Dr Muire said that with your flu, laryngitis, urinary tract infection, sunburn, pink eye, and sprained ankle, fifteen hours could be considered just barely enough."

"Hfhddcl?" _How many times did you bother the woman Sherlock?_

Taking a seat delicately on the edge of their bed, Sherlock looked west, mumbling, "Mostly I spoke with her assistant. And other assistant. And practice partner. And personal partner when perhaps I called her at home. Somewhat."

John said nothing because frankly, John was already exhausted from this entire conversation.

"Ffft." _Ffft._

The good doctor's exhaustion had nothing to do with Sherlock being frantically Sherlock, but everything to do with the pink eye and the infection and all the rest that had come after twelve hours sifting through eighty-three portable latrines for—well John can't even remember what they were looking for only that they found it and it had something to do with elephants and pinecones.

Or maybe that was the dream he was just having. _Anyway._

"Wfht." _Why were you on the floor?_

Sherlock used the square of loo roll to pat at John's fever-damp brow. "Because after talking to Dr Muire's wife Mary—did you know that in Ireland Muire refers to the Virgin Mary and since Mary took Dr Muire's surname she is now, in a manner of speaking Mary Mary?—I didn't want to disturb your sleep."

John took a while to unpack that and he apparently napped a bit in the middle. When he woke, Sherlock was reading the giant book John had woke to find on his chest.

"Tsst?" _What is that beastly thing and why was it on my chest?_

Sherlock beamed. "It came this morning!"

What Sherlock did not say but what John Watson heard was, "Right after you took your antibiotics, put drops in your eyes, changed the dressing on that burn, and limped to bed I called in three favours to get you the six and a half pounds of _Breakthrough! Two Hundred Years of The Lancet, Vol 1_ —on its release date and at four am this morning—so when you woke you'd have something wonderful to read while you're half dying from everything thank you the case was _brilliant."_

What Sherlock did not say and what John also somehow heard anyway was, "By the way I don't agree with _anything_ they say on pages 9, 150, 780, and 1,401," but that was an argument for another day.

John sat up with the speed of an unconscious sloth. He was pleased that he was no longer dizzy, nauseous, or hiccupping. Also his hair didn't itch any more. Still and all, he had the energy of a newborn kitten so his weak flappy gesture in no way managed to point to the book or his own arse and yet still Sherlock understood.

Clambering his long limbs onto the bed, pushing two spoons, a small mirror, and loo roll on to the floor, Sherlock tucked himself in beside John, and immediately turned to the study about which they were both most curious.

"So," Sherlock whispered in a bedtime story voice, "it turns out digital rectal massage cures persistent hiccups, according to the breakthrough study by Helens, Jettalomaloman et al and—"

Thus two ideal soulmates grunted, chattered, napped, and read their way through the rest of the day and on in to the night.

—  
_In case it's not obvious, the chapter title is 'soulmates,' only it's John saying it. Or not, as the case may be. P.S. The Lancet book is fake, but the study about a man's hiccups being cured by[digital rectal massage](http://www.abc.net.au/science/articles/2012/09/04/3582324.htm) is real. You're welcome. P.P.S. Anarion wrote [Home Remedy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401804), a 221B prequel for this chapter!_


	10. Dolittle Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tentacles / Animals_
> 
> If he could talk to the animals, just imagine it  
> Chatting to a chick in chickenese  
> What a neat achievement that would be!

In the name of consulting detection, John Watson has done, learned, tolerated, or whole-heartedly taken part in a frankly astonishing array of things.

Despite frequent protestations—as per cranky-man protocol—these things have been worth every bug in John's butter, every full-tilt run through a pitch-dark sculpture gallery (so. many. bruises.), and each poke in the ribs at 3:30 am with a whispered _"We have to crawl through the Crouch End sewers_ tonight _John, tonight!"_

Not only has he done a wide range of things in service to Sherlock's mad genius, John's even added to his arsenal of Shit I Can Do At Parties That Seems to Impress People.

The most recent of these achievements includes being able to recognise poisoned condiments on sight. The proof can be found in John's Branston pickle, mustard, ketchup, and piccalilli condiments chart, which displays the colours these niceties _should_ be when purchased from any of the four most popular food chains in London. By mentally referencing this chart during the Met's Summer Picnic, John was able to tell aphrodisiac-laced ketchup from the regular sort, preventing fifteen of the Scotland Yard's finest from doping themselves as they enjoyed fish and chips.

John's array of additional skills developed since he's known Sherlock, also includes being able to run a solid mile in six minutes in a brand new pair of Charles Tyrwhitt Black Parker Toe Cap brogues, gifted to him by his love last Christmas. Though developing the last six of what would turn out to be twenty-three blisters, John helped Sherlock run down the garrotter by crossing Hungerford's _east_ footbridge while the suspect and Sherlock dashed down the west. So successful were their dramatic contretemps that Channel 4 was on the scene immediately and interviewed him while he was still panting and clutching the brogues to his chest. By way of thanks, Charles Tyrwhitt a week later sent both of them a dozen new pairs of the pricy shoes.

This all by way of saying that it's been worth every moment developing these rare talents, just so John Watson could help his One True and Very Daft Love develop his own.

The most recent of these talents is really just the growth of one Sherlock has long since had: John calls them his Dolittle Deductions and with these Sherlock's been able to speak for those who do not. So to speak.

Sitting in Regent's Park in the middle of a flock of forty-five geese, for example, Sherlock last month listened to the honks, watched the waddles, and in no time at all knew which goose had swallowed a rare spessartite garnet. This knowledge had cost him the shine on one of those new pairs of brogues but _worth it._

Sherlock has also, in passing, looked into a university fish tank and deduced the Thames location of a rare smelt's breeding ground, a question conservationists had been unable to answer for five years.

In short, Sherlock has perfected the art of deducing creatures that are not inclined to aid in the deduction. He's deduced angry puppies, scratchy cats, and gazed into the eyes of a sharp-taloned chicken and seen the bloodlust there. That case took about three minutes, the owner of the "urban ornamental" fowl was grateful, paying him in one hundred jars of her company's most expensive jam. She's since begun giving her bossy bird raw eggs every other morning and Mathilde has stopped pecking her feet. Everyone's happy.

This list gained a new addition this week when Sherlock deduced the colossal squid which had been following a research vessel, a vessel the small crew swore was 'haunted.'

In actual fact this ghost-plagued boat was suffering from a crew so besotted by the squid clutching at them with its tentacles and leaving pretty little sucker marks on their reaching hands and arms, that not one of the scientists remembered that though they each had but two, the squid had eight. While a few of her tentacles were busy charming the crew by giving them squid hickies, many of the others were busy not only grabbing tiny things from their pockets, but also thieving things she liked, in one instance unlatching the belt of a Scotsman's sporran and spiriting away his Oyster card, a favourite shell, and the phone number of that pretty boy at Costa.

This list is in no way exhaustive. How could it be? As long as there is a doctor and a consulting detective together, this pair will always, _always_ roam far and wide, doing the deducing impossible.

Doctor Dolittle would probably approve.

—  
_So it's very difficult to find a human with squid/octopus sucker marks, so this became about something else. HOWEVER. Colossal squids have[hook](http://www.fishingfury.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/squid-tenticle.jpg) and/or [teeth](https://www.naturepl.com/stock-photo-toothed-suckers-on-tentacles-of-humboldt-squid-dosidicus-gigas--santa-image01526138.html)-like [objects](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/gulf-of-california-mexico-a-close-view-of-the-toothed-suckers-of-the-picture-idngs41_0359) in some of their [suckers](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/humboldt-squid-toothed-suckers-sea-of-cortez-mexico-picture-id135624469) and [these scars](https://ocean.si.edu/ocean-life/invertebrates/giant-squid-sucker-marks) on a whale are attributed to them. I learned that this week and MIND. BLOWN. You're welcome. (P.S. Apologies for paraphrasing "[Talk to the Animals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpBPavEDQCk)," in the summary. Except not really.)_


	11. Forever Times Forever, Plus a Little More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Accidental Spying_
> 
> John Watson can tell you several things he knows for absolute sure about Sherlock Holmes, and those things are these…

Very early in John Watson's association with Sherlock Holmes the good doctor can tell you several things he knows for absolute sure about the man, and those things are these:

* On the second day of being flatmates, John can tell you that yes, a resting bitch face really _is_ Sherlock's permanent expression.

Proof, should proof you require, includes coming downstairs for breakfast and finding Sherlock scowling at the electric kettle, as if willing it to boil faster. It's only upon getting closer that John smells the entrails boiling away inside that kettle, and never mind that once the stench fills the kitchen, _he's_ scowling, too.

* The eighth day of their acquaintance John can tell you that yes, Sherlock is indeed rude to the Yarders, as evidenced by completely and consistently ignoring two constables every time they greet him brightly with, "Evenin' Sherlock!"

That it is almost always early morning does seem odd to John but, to counterbalance his flatmate's impoliteness, he always gives both coppers a quick nod and salute.

* Ten days after living with the consulting detective John can tell you that it's true, Sherlock really doesn't have time for anything but clues and cases.

Proving this is easy, for in those early days John's pretty sure the only words he hears from his flatmate's mouth are blood spatter, experiment, evidence, and imbeciles.

* After a fortnight of living with Sherlock, John can say the man's really as prickly as you think.

This is most sharply evidenced when Sherlock flinches away after accidentally brushing against John's hand when they both reach for the jam.

So, do you see? About the things John knows about Sherlock Holmes?

If you do, if you _do_ think you see, here's a thing you should also know about those things John knows:

They're _bullshit._

A month after moving in to 221B John knows this for true after several acts of accidental spying.

It goes like this:

* On the thirty-second day of being flatmates John, in a random wander down by the Thames, comes unexpectedly upon his flatmate sitting cross-legged and grinning underneath Waterloo Bridge.

Not more than a couple metres distant, John clearly sees Sherlock holding a tiny baby and giggling every time the infant laughs. Giggling. Sherlock Holmes. That he is softly singing to the child becomes clear only when John begins to hold his breath.

That he gives the homeless woman two hundred pounds and the address to a shelter that he promises will help her get back on her feet, this goes almost unnoticed by John because he's busy blinking back unexpected tears.

* On the forty-first day of being Sherlock's flatmate John steps through Scotland Yard's doors a few minutes _after_ Sherlock. Those same two constables persistently ignored by the detective are greeting him with grins. And unkind salutations.

"So howzit going freak?"

When Sherlock fails to answer, the coppers take turns taking digs at the detective, including laughing uproariously about the time Sherlock had confused night for day, wishing them a good evening as he left. "It was five in the morning you daft moron!"

What goes unsaid by the two jackasses, and what John discovers later, is that Sherlock had spent ten straight hours in an interrogation room with a suspect, successfully deducing the location of a child hidden away in an outdoor storage unit during London's coldest week on record. Having entered that interrogation room when it was dark and come out when it was dark, Sherlock was too exhausted to realise the passing of time.

* It's on the fifty-ninth day of being Sherlock's flatmate and on his way to meet him in the park, that John discovers Sherlock fills his mind palace with more than just clues and cases, deductions and experiments.

"—no, no, no Mrs Hudson, it's _Nubbin_ who likes the peanuts and it's Peanut, the littlest gosling over there, who likes the sunflower seeds. Oh, and please go easy with the crisps, I'm afraid Mother Goose will eat every one you give her, however I think we should strictly reserve them for treats."

While Sherlock clucks at the family of geese surrounding the Regent's Park bench he shares with his landlady, and while he continues to hand feed Bambino, Ladybird, and Nipper grape halves, John becomes more of something he already is—utterly besotted.

And finally…

* The most important thing John's learnt about Sherlock Holmes comes on the sixty-fourth day of their acquaintance and firsthand. It is on that day John knows his flatmate is not prickly, not prickly at all.

No, when you're kissing Sherlock Holmes, kissing his hair, his nose, his mouth? Then Sherlock is soft, soft, soft.

When he's running his hands over your lashes, your belly, your cock? Then Sherlock's whispers are honey sweet, his mouth warm and careful and so hungry.

Finally, when you are John, lucky, lucky John Watson, you'll come to know for sure two more things about Sherlock Holmes and those things are these:

* You will love this rare, fine man fiercely and for all the years you have together.

* And he, with all his smiles and scowls, his giggles and genius? Well Sherlock will love you back forever times forever. Plus a little bit more.

_—_  
_Thank you for reading this tiny series of stories that have taken me a long while to complete. I combine a couple of prompts, hence a twelve-day series turns in to eleven. I hope you enjoyed. Do please let me know!_

**Author's Note:**

> Pssst, I'm over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/atlinmerrick) and [Tumblr](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/)—say howdy!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [221b - Home remedy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401804) by [Anarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarion/pseuds/Anarion)




End file.
